embrace, and danced in the May meadows outside its gates. Perhaps she would never enter its precinct again. She was desperate to enquire after Benedict and knew that she must not. You are Mauger's wife, she told herself, and you should not even be here. Decorum is everything.
'Is my father at Brize?'
'Is your father ever at Brize?' Arlette responded a trifle tartly. 'No, he has gone to a horse fair in Bruges. I am alone. Gisele is with Benedict.'
Julitta swallowed. 'In England?' she asked, when she was sure of her voice.
Arlette shook her head. 'Gisele hates crossing the narrow sea. They are in Rouen, to make an offering at the tomb of St Petronella.'
'Why St Petronella?' Julitta was forced to ask. As a child, she had paid very little attention to her saints' days, and knew only the most important ones.
'She can work miracles. Women who offer at her tomb, often quicken with child within a month of the visit. I prayed there nine moons before Gisele was born.'
It was on the tip of Julitta's tongue to say that women who wore the green on May Eve frequently quickened within a month of the event too, but she held her tongue. That avenue was fraught with thorns of personal pain. Nor did she want to think of Gisele and Benedict lying together. 'I wish them well,' she managed to say.
'Perhaps you and Mauger should do the same. It is more than a year since you were married.'
Julitta said nothing. She did not want children who looked like Mauger. She wanted children who looked like Benedict. And that opportunity had bled away.
'You have settled well to the yoke of marriage.' Arlette gave her a sidelong look. 'There were times when I despaired of you, but Mauger seems to have tamed your wildness.'
Julitta compressed her lips. Caged, not tamed, she thought, and to emphasise the point to herself moved away from Arlette in the direction of her mount. A long gallop on the way home would dispel some of the frustration. Arlette followed her, but after no more than three paces, desisted with a gasp and pressed her hand to her side.
Julitta turned at the sound and was just in time to see Arlette stagger and fall. She hastened back to her and dropped at her side. Arlette's features were twisted with pain. Her right hand was pressed over her lower stomach and her breathing was short and distressed.
Julitta did not ask what was wrong. Arlette was so consumed by the agony that she was obviously incapable of answering. From the manner she was clutching her abdomen, it was clear where the problem lay and there was nothing Julitta could do except soothe, reassure, and summon help.
Arlette's maidservant wrung her hands at the plight of her mistress, and began to blubber. 'She's had the pains since Easter time, but never as bad as this before!' the woman sobbed, kneading the end of her wimple for comfort. She refused to touch Arlette, and Julitta realised grimly that even threats of a beating or dismissal would not coerce her into helping. The woman had a mortal fear of sickness, that was a sickness in itself.
'Go and plump up the cushions in the wain for your mistress,' Julitta snapped, 'then take one of the grooms and ride on ahead to let them know at Brize. Don't just stand there gawking like a codfish, go on!' She shooed a furious hand. The woman swallowed, dipped a curtsey, and fled. 'Eda, Simon, help me raise her into the litter,' Julitta commanded her own servants.
When the young Serjeant raised Arlette from the ground, she screamed and doubled up, and he almost dropped her. Lifting her into the wain was a struggle, but he succeeded, and laid her clumsily down upon the cushions. Arlette lolled, semiconscious, a continuous low moan issuing from her throat.
'What shall we do, mistress?' Eda's voice was a frightened whisper.
Julitta gnawed her lip. Panic was infectious. In a moment, all the servants would be baulking. She realised that the responsibility for seeing that they did not, was hers, and almost baulked herself. Then she drew a deep breath and steadied down. 'Simon,' she called to the young serjeant, who was waiting at the side of the wain.
'Mistress Julitta?' He stood' to attention, all brawny two yards of him. Everyone liked Simon. He was intelligent, good-humoured, and quietly dependable. Even Mauger, who could usually find reason to grumble, had never said anything against the young man.
'Return to Fauville and let them know what has happened. I am going to ride on to Brize with Lady Arlette. There is no-one of authority there, so I will remain until either my father or Lady Gisele returns.'
He departed straight away. Julitta grimaced. Now she was more alone than ever.
The journey to Brize was no more than two miles, but it seemed to take forever. The wain travelled slowly and the driver was careful, but each time the wheels rumbled into a rut on the road, Arlette would groan and clutch her belly. Julitta sat beside her, holding her hand, trying to comfort her. She suspected that Arlette would only become quiet when she was given a potion to deaden the pain. Syrup of poppies usually worked, although too much could kill. Perhaps that would be a blessing in disguise, she thought, watching Arlette twist and struggle like an animal in a trap. How thin she was, nothing more than skin and bone. Reminded of her own mother, Julitta had to struggle with a sudden upsurge of grief. Arlette de Brize did not have the coughing sickness, but something just as deadly was eating her away. Julitta wondered if her father's wife would live to see her convent consecrated, let alone live within its confines as its patroness.
Arlette opened her eyes and her gaze wandered around the chamber, drifting and resting and drifting again like a leaf blown by the wind. Julitta leaned over her, and saw the eyes struggle to focus. Poppy syrup not only served to quieten pain, it also impeded a patient's vision and coherence.
'Gisele?' Arlette licked her lips and strove to sit up.
'No, it is Julitta. I do not know if you remember, but you fell ill at the convent and I brought you home.'
'I want my daughter.'
'She will be here soon, I am sure,' Julitta soothed and plumped the pillows at Arlette's back. 'Are you still in pain?'
Arlette's hand travelled to her abdomen and briefly explored. 'It is still there,' she said, 'but it gnaws quietly now.' She plucked at the embroidered coverlet. 'Sometimes it is worse than others. I should not have travelled out as I did, but I wanted to see the convent.' Her cloudy gaze perused the room once more before returning to Julitta, and although unfocused, her eyes were shrewd. 'People say that you are your father's daughter; you have his looks, his ways about you, but I do not believe that is the entire story.'
'Do you not?' There was a touch of hostility in Julitta's tone. She had heard Arlette's opinion of her worth several times in the past and was wary of any new pronunciations.
'You need not have brought me home to Brize and seen me to my bed. You need not have stayed to see me wake. I do not delude myself that there is any tender emotion between us, but the fact remains that you are here. That is more than I have ever been able to say of your father. You have a steadiness that he lacks, and that must surely come from your mother.'
'A steadiness in me?'Julitta stifled a bitter laugh. 'I think not.'
'It is true.'
Julitta shook her head. 'If I have more steadiness,' she said, 'then I also had more wildness, and that too comes from my mother.' And quickly changed the subject as she was assaulted by a prickling of tears. 'Is there anything you need?'
Arlette sighed and moved her head restlessly on the pillows. 'I need to see my daughter,' she said. 'May God speed her home from Rouen. A word with Father Hoel will do for the moment. I am in need of spiritual comfort.'
Julitta inclined her head and went to the door. She could have sent one of the maids, but she wanted to escape from the claustrophobic grip of the sick woman's presence. It was not Arlette de Brize lying in that bed, it was her own mother, and with that association, came all the other memories of those terrible days.
She was crossing the bailey in search of Father Hoel, when the riders entered through the gateway, a westering sun gilding their silhouettes. There was a large travelling wain drawn by four horses in single line, and a small escort of men-at-arms. Julitta stood aside to let the wain draw into the yard, and raised her hand to shade her eyes against the glint of the low sun.
Benedict dismounted from Cylu, his favourite grey, and handed the reins to an attendant. His black hair was wind-ruffled, and his features were clear-cut, etched in sun-gold. Her eyes traced every facet and nuance,
